


breath mints and lip balm

by grapehyasynth



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2020-11-16 10:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Collection of small tidbits (hence the title) I've written about David and Patrick. Previously posted on Tumblr.





	1. Offended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honeymoon fluffy moment

David is playing with Patrick’s wedding ring, an extension of his pre-existing nervous habit which makes Patrick feel stupidly pleased at being included. It’s the fourth day of their honeymoon and they’re curled together on top of the sheets, watching the sunset through the open doors to their balcony. 

David’s body shakes, and Patrick glances down to find his husband smirking. 

“What?” he grins, nudging David. 

David shakes his head, smoothing a hand over Patrick’s ribs. “I was just remembering when we first met. I don’t know if I ever told you, but I was really offended.” 

“Offended?” he repeats, not surprised but wanting to hear David tell it. 

“Mmhmm. I was convinced you’d denigrated my business plan and spent the whole meeting trolling me. Fortunately Stevie talked me off _that _ledge.” 

“Thank goodness for Stevie,” Patrick agrees, as seriously as he can manage. “Who knows what might’ve happened otherwise. No business plan, no store, no us.” 

David shudders and latches onto one of the buttons of Patrick’s shirt, like he needs to know Patrick is there but trusts him to stay. “Let’s not even think about it.” 

“Just for the record, though,” Patrick says, rubbing a hand soothingly over David’s shoulders, “I _did _spend the whole meeting trolling you. Your business plan was good but your delivery…left something to be desired.” 

It’s a mark of David’s comfort in their relationship that he just snorts and doesn’t rear up in indignation. “So you decided the best way to handle a new, inexperienced, insecure entrepreneur was to tear them down?” 

“C’mon, I knew you could take it,” Patrick chuckles. “I was just goading you to get you to fully express your ideas. It didn’t do any real damage.” 

“It might’ve done, if not for Stevie and a gross motel blunt,” David mutters. 

Patrick is silent for a moment, and then his fingertips are on David’s cheek, tilting his head up. David inhales, struck again - for the thousandth time since meeting Patrick; for the thousandth time today - by the beauty of this man, his face rosy with the sunset. “I’m sorry if I offended you, back then,” Patrick murmurs. David isn’t sure he’d ever heard an honest apology before Patrick. “I’ve always liked messing with you, but I never meant to - I didn’t think - if it -”

“Nuh-uh, shhh,” David hushes him, shaking his head fervently. “If it had really hurt me, I’d tell you. You’re right, it _did _push my buttons, but…in a good way? I was used to people thinking it was funny, to insult me, to rile me up, so I didn’t understand at first why it was different with you, but it was.” 

“How?” Patrick presses, genuinely curious now. 

David shrugs. His lips turn down a bit in serious contemplation, but he’s not shying away. “I wasn’t a target to you. I was…you wanted me in on it, with you. You were always nice, even when you were being a dick.” 

Patrick laughs with his whole body, wrapping David in his arms. “As I recall, that’s one of the first things you liked about me. That I’m _nice_.” 

David nudges Patrick’s neck with his nose. “I always thought nice was boring, before you. I didn’t know how … personal it could be. Intimate. Powerful.” 

Something significant has lodged itself in Patrick’s chest; he clears his throat and kisses the top of David’s head. “Can I go back to offending you? You must be exhausted from all this sincerity.” 

David laughs against him and burrows deeper into his hold. “Sure, honey. Whatever you want.” 


	2. dear diary

David purposefully doesn’t mention Patrick in his diary for weeks. It’s a habit he developed through a combination of experience (a large portion of his interactions with Alexis during their early childhood involved invasions of privacy) and superstition. If he writes about happiness or anticipation or excitement, it’s an admission that he’s invested. He’s avoided writing about the store for the same reason for a while, but once his lease is accepted, he has to write about the store in his diary just to keep himself organized.**  
**

Diane, the one therapist who had truly made him feel safe, encouraged him to be fully honest in his journaling. “If you say it there, it might make it easier to say it out loud. It’s a way to validate your own feelings.” 

She’d been right, in a way; he did start saying _I’m so lonely_ and _I want to leave_ and _Please listen_ out loud, but people were always too drunk or too busy to hear it. And the other stuff, the dreams and hopes - it felt too dangerous. To imagine being okay, let alone happy - it would be foolish to indulge that. He was probably always going to be miserable, and the sooner he stopped pretending otherwise, the better. 

So he doesn’t mention Patrick in his diary for a while. He doesn’t mention their meeting; he tells Stevie about it, but he doesn’t include the giddy electricity of their conversation or how bizarrely genuine Patrick’s smile is. He doesn’t write about quiet mornings spent setting up the store alone and the nauseating rush he feels when Patrick shows up in the early afternoons. He doesn’t write about Patrick’s habit of humming as he wipes down the window panes. He doesn’t include their arguments over the best music for the store, a tally of the number of times Patrick has brought him lunch without being asked, or the way Patrick looks at him the day some old ladies from Elmdale show up and David indulges them and lets them look around the shop even though they’re not technically open yet. He doesn’t keep a list of potential thank-you gifts for Patrick or a summary of childhood anecdotes that seem to spill gleefully out of Patrick for no reason other than that he wants to share them with David. He definitely doesn’t write about the night he cries himself to sleep because he wants to love and be loved so badly but he’s not sure he’s capable of that. 

He doesn’t write any of this in his diary, but it’s filling his mind to the point where it’s getting hard to think about anything else. After the soft opening, after Patrick hugs him for the first time, he goes back to the motel and sits on a rickety plastic chair under the light outside Stevie’s office while everyone else sleeps and writes about it, about _Patrick_. He emerges from a semi-fugue state an hour later and looks in dismay at the pages he’s filled. It’s too much. It’s too much to feel, to hope for, to believe. 

He takes the pages behind the motel and burns them. 

But then there’s another night, another community event at the store. Patrick is singing to David in front of the whole town and it’s too much, but it’s a kind of too much he could get drunk on. He lets out a wet laugh as he realizes what he’s been trying to hide from: this is no longer just a dream or a hope. He’s _living _this. He’s living this moment, these moments, with Patrick, instead of waiting for them to come. It’s okay to be invested in this. 

That night he starts writing about Patrick in his diary. _A few months ago I met this guy_. He writes at the store during lulls between customers, he writes while Alexis is in the bathroom, he writes standing at the cafe waiting for their orders. He writes _all of it_, because he thinks that maybe even if this ends badly, he’ll want to remember. He’s never felt that way before.


	3. by sun's rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

No no no no no no no-”

“C’mon David, time to go.” 

“Nooooo,” he groans into the pillow, curling into a ball to keep his ankles out of Patrick’s reach. His boyfriend is standing at the foot of the bed, dressed and smiling and smelling like convenience-store soap, and David has never hated him more. 

“Anita said we have to be there at dawn for the optimal experience,” Patrick reminds him. 

“Don’t care.” David curses his past self for agreeing to a series of excursions meant to enhance their relationships with vendors. “Can’t she just take a video and we’ll watch it much, much later? Like, when the sun has risen?” 

The bed sinks as Patrick kneels on it, and David feels a brief rush of victory. Patrick crawls up until he can nuzzle at David’s ear. 

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you this,” Patrick whispers, and David’s body unfurls instinctually, “But Anita’s been considering offering us an exclusivity deal on her chocolate-covered honeycomb.” 

David’s hand shoots out to grab Patrick’s wrist with far more vigor than either of them realized he could have at 4 in the morning. “Don’t,” he breathes shakily. “Don’t tease me like that, Patrick. Anita’s honeycomb-” 

Patrick kisses David’s shoulder. “Scout’s honor, babe. She seemed pretty close to deciding. Just think what showing up at her farm for her favorite part of the day would mean to her...” 

David feels like he’s going to cry. It’s all so unfair. Why did he have to go on a journey of growth and self-expression in the first place? “Fine. Fine! But you’re driving, both ways, and I choose the music, and afterwards I’m going to sleep until dinnertime.” 

  
  
  


Which is how David finds himself in a field just before sunrise, his eyes puffy, his shoes soaked through with dew, his coffee not nearly strong enough. Bless Anita for having the forethought to bring out a couple of folding chairs for them. He’s already complained enough to Patrick in the car - he could tell, from the way Patrick grew quiet and irritable, that he’d complained too much - so he sits bitterly with his circle of negative thoughts, playing them on repeat until he jerks awake with a start and nearly topples off the chair. 

“Shit - oh, Patrick - The sun’s coming up-” 

He gropes backwards with his free hand but encounters only empty air. Twisting, he finds Patrick’s chair empty. 

“What the f-” 

He’s on his feet immediately, exhaustion and annoyance forgotten. Where are Patrick and Anita? This is how horror movies start. His only weapon will be his paper cup and these folding chairs, which could make acceptable shields but will be too unwieldy, and oh  _ god  _ this is what he gets for  _ compromising _ and letting Stevie choose the movie-

“Patrick!” he yells, and a covey of birds lift as one, startled, from the grass, spiraling away towards the sky. He turns to watch them fly towards the lightening horizon, which is when he sees him. 

Striding towards him across the field, silhouetted from behind by the sunrise, is Patrick. His long coat, which David has never seen before, stirs the sparkling dew and the lingering fog. 

“Oh my god,” David gasps. 

Beside him, cascading piano music starts playing, and he jumps. Anita is back, holding her phone out, grinning. David laughs, because he knows what’s happening, he knows what this is. 

It’s not canonical, but he leaves his coffee on the chair and walks to meet Patrick halfway. He just can’t wait. 

Patrick makes an appropriately pale Mr. Darcy, though in every other way he’s hopelessly himself, smiling fondly, not dour at all. He catches David’s hands as they reach each other, nearly colliding in their eagerness. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” David says, knowing his part. 

“Nor I,” Patrick replies, and David nearly sobs, tilting his head back as if he can keep the tears in that way. 

“ _ I  _ should be Matthew Macfadyen,” he scolds, rubbing his thumb over Patrick’s knuckles. “For the height difference.” 

“I know,” Patrick grins, “but I wanted to surprise you.” 

He clears his throat and looks down, and David realizes Patrick is nervous - he’s seen this before, during their first date, during Singles’ Week, on Patrick’s birthday - Patrick is nervous, when he’s just pulled off a  _ Pride and Prejudice _ reenactment, and David’s heart clenches in a way that reverberates to the tips of his fingers. 

“David Rose,” Patrick murmurs, glancing back up at David with eyelashes glowing in the fresh dawn. “You have bewitched me, body and soul. I love you. I never wish to be parted from you, from this day on.” 

“This is ridiculous,” David weeps. 

Patrick begins to kneel, and David tries to keep him standing, because there’s only so much one man can take, especially on a half-night’s sleep. “You’ll get your pants all wet,” he pleads. 

“That’s not your line,” Patrick teases, but he’s crying too, just a little. He releases one of David’s hands - and seems to hold the other tighter - and reaches into one pocket of his borrowed coat, withdrawing a long, black jewelry box. 

“But your hands aren’t cold at all, and as much as I love everything that’s happening, I-” 

He cuts off with a tearful laugh as Patrick opens the box. 

“This is  _ fucking  _ ridiculous,” he repeats, and he wishes Patrick were already in his arms, wishes he weren’t so far away. 

“David, I know I tease you a lot for all of the romantic comedies you watch, and I always say they’re not good for our relationship, but that’s a lie. Because watching all of those epic love stories with you has confirmed for me what I already felt to be true: that ours is the grandest love story of all.” 

David staggers back a few steps, covering his face with both hands. 

“I love you, David Rose, in the big moments and the small, and I want to share all of those moments with you for the rest of our lives. Will you-”

“ _ Yes _ ,” David says, dragging Patrick to his feet, engulfing him in a hug, covering his face in kisses. “Yes, Patrick, yes.” 

“I didn’t even-”

David rolls his eyes without a trace of real irritation. “Marry me?” 

Patrick laughs. “Oh, okay.” 

“You can say the whole thing again later, I just want to be engaged to you already,” David whispers, and then finally Patrick is kissing him, kissing him in a golden field at sunrise, sweeter than honeycomb. 


	4. the difference

It’s one of the lazy days early in - well, not early in anything, Patrick supposes, because they’ve been dating for over six months now. It _ feels _ like it’s early in a new phase, though, because he only recently said _ I love you _ for the first time, because David only recently said it back. 

So it’s a lazy early day in this new phase. They’re squeezed onto David’s bed because it’s raining outside and they’d walked here, Patrick's car parked devastatingly out of reach at Ray's. David had spent the first hour complaining about their ruined plans for the afternoon, but that’s given way to this - laying together, listening to the TV in the next room (the one with strangers filling it, not Mr. and Mrs. Rose), not feeling the need to speak. 

It’s the kind of quiet peace Patrick used to love about being with Rachel. He’s not quite past his guilt about having good memories with Rachel - it's a weird kind of remorse, and he's not sure whom he's apologizing to - but the fact is that he does. And gentle moments of just _ being _ together like this, feeling the warmth of another body, feeling two sets of lungs sync up effortlessly, feeling no need to go anywhere or pretend to be anyone else - they’re some of the best times he had with her. 

David’s fingers are skating through the air over Patrick’s forearm, making the hair stand on end. Then they stutter, the tips just brushing his arm in a pulse of nerve endings, his skin too wishing it could stand on end and follow David’s touch. 

Beside him - beneath him - David makes a noise. “Hmm.” 

Patrick tilts his head on David’s breastbone and looks at him. It’s been maybe five minutes since he looked at him, and he still feels breathless. “Hmm?” 

“I just-” A furrow wiggles softly between David’s brows, then vanishes, his face doing this soft, melting computation that Patrick adores. “I just figured out - um, how to say something. Or explain something, I guess.” 

This is normally where Patrick would tease David _ Oh you figured out how to say things? Very good David _, or something equally inane, but the blush across David’s high cheekbones makes this moment feel too fragile. So too does the thump of David’s heart, which Patrick can feel against his armpit. 

So he just nudges David with his chin. 

“Okay,” David says nervously, shifting slightly onto his elbows, his lips twitching like a flipbook illustration of a smile. “So you know how if you touch your own forehead, it’s, like, a nonevent?” 

Whatever Patrick had been expecting- “Um?” he manages. 

“Just-” David harumphs and snags Patrick’s hand, demonstrating by pressing Patrick’s forefinger to the center of his head. “No big deal, right?” 

“I should go wash that with tea tree oil,” he teases, making as if to get up, but David’s socked feet snag his ankles. 

“But if someone else goes to touch your forehead- You can feel it before they even make contact.” David raises his own hand this time, then hesitates. “Close your eyes.” 

Patrick’s loathe to do so. David looks so excited now, alight with this discovery that Patrick still doesn’t understand. But he smiles and lets his eyes drift closed. 

He knows in an instant what David means. There’s nothing touching his forehead, but he can feel - vibrations, tension, electricity, the awareness of David’s finger there, a breath away from his skin. He nearly gasps with the fullness of the feeling. It’s like the anticipation before a kiss, or the build before an orgasm, every bit of him reaching to be touched. 

David’s finger makes contact, gently rolling against his forehead, and Patrick blinks up at him. David tilts his head, tracing one of Patrick’s eyebrows with the finger he’d used for the demonstration. 

“That’s the difference,” David continues, voice dropped about an octave, trembly but certain. “That - that gap of sensation, between touching your own forehead and when someone else does it - that’s the difference...between what it feels like with anyone else, and what it feels like with you.” 

Patrick’s fairly sure he dissociates right off the bed, right out of Schitt’s Creek, for a solid thirty seconds. He just lays there, blinking stupidly at his boyfriend. 

“I-” He finally clears his throat and tries again. “You mean, sexually?” 

“Sure,” David says, waving his hands, a bit of his archness coming back as his vulnerability scuttles to hide. “But - but in other ways, too. All the ways.” 

“Oh.” He finds he has to push himself up to a seated position. “Oh, _ David _.” 

“Um.” David sits up too, his face doing some gymnastics that have nothing on Patrick’s insides right now. “Why do you look - why do you look _ mad _?” 

“I’m not-” Patrick spreads his hands across his jeans, flexing them. “I’m not mad, David, don’t be ridiculous. That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. And - and same, for the record,” he says bashfully. “That’s - that’s what the difference feels like for me, too.” 

“You _ are _mad, though,” David repeats doubtfully. Patrick shakes his head quickly, ready to shower David in love to distract him, but it’s too late - David’s face brightens with vindictive glee. “Oh, honey, are you pissed that you didn’t think of that first?” 

“_ No, _” Patrick huffs, super believably. 

“Aw, baby,” David grins, wedging himself against Patrick’s side, tickling his ribs. “Did I out-romance you? Are you, just, like, super bummed that I swept you off your singer-songwriter ballads-of-love feet? That I turned the tables on you and won at romance?” 

“_ No _,” Patrick says again, petulantly, but he’s milking it now, just to be mollified by David, just to be pulled to his chest and cradled on this ridiculous twin bed. “You can’t win at romance, David. And I’m not even a songwriter. Just a singer.” 

“Okay, honey.” David kisses his forehead, right where he’d touched it earlier. 

“I’m still more romantic,” Patrick mumbles into the edge of David’s collar. 

“Okay, honey.” 


	5. vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello, drabble/ficlet that decided it wanted to be written instead of letting me work on my 8000k WIP draft!!! 
> 
> Anywho, I recommend you look at pics of The Vessel in NYC if you don't know what it looks like - will be helpful context for this little thing.

“Hmm. This is not what I was expecting.” David frowns up at the - sculpture? installation? monolith? - as he eats the last of the chili-dusted mango he’d bought from a street vendor. 

“What were you expecting, David, if not a ‘transparent tourist trap and a laughable attempt to pretend this whole area isn’t a rich person’s playground’?” 

David’s answering look could flatten even the scariest of Patrick’s professors. “Plagiarizing other people’s critiques is gauche.” 

Patrick glances away as David licks his fingertips clean of mango juice. “Is it still plagiarism if you fundamentally change the tone? For example, when  _ you  _ said ‘rich person’s playground’ you sounded reverent, whereas  _ I _ -” 

“Give the man the tickets,” David interrupts, nudging him with an elbow. 

Patrick grins and holds out his phone for the steward to scan the downloaded code. They’re waved through and they start climbing their way up the labyrinthine hive. 

x

He’s still not sure how he conned David into being his friend, much less how they’ve ended up here, at [The Vessel at Hudson Yards](https://www.hudsonyardsnewyork.com/sites/default/files/styles/experience_details/public/2019-03/Schenck%20Related%20HY%202019_03_15%20DSC_1932.jpg?itok=4BeKsvuD) at the end of a very long day trip to New York. They’re both at least eight years older than the average graduate student at their tiny school (which David swears is in “upstate New York”, even though Patrick has repeatedly shown him how far south it is on the map), and ostensibly that had been the reason they had started hanging out, to avoid going to keg nights with kids who’ve never not been in school. But it shouldn’t have been enough to sustain the friendship. Two months into the school year, David is still the highlight of Patrick’s everyday. 

x

“Art is not meant to be work,” David huffs, a few levels up. He swats at Patrick’s arm to get him to stop and they move to the side, leaning against the railing as overeager families and nonplussed tourists wind past them. 

Patrick laughs out loud. “This from the guy who gave me a lecture on how 90% of art comes from the observer.” 

David’s mouth twitches, but he rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I said 87%? And you know what I mean. Like, intellectual work, emotional work, yes, obviously.  _ This?  _ Uncalled for.” 

Willing to buy David a bit more breathing time, Patrick goes on, “Really I should be thanking you. I thought we were coming to see The Vessel for  _ you _ , but with all this climbing, it’s looking to be the best workout I’ve gotten all week.”

“The best-!” David glares at him. “We have been walking  _ all fucking day _ . I have pain in places I didn’t even know I had muscles! How is walking-” He checks his watch and practically squawks. “-seven  _ godforsaken _ miles not the  _ best workout you’ve gotten all week _ ?” 

“Not all of us take an Uber to every class, David.” Patrick shrugs and turns to ascend the next staircase. 

“Patrick Brewer!” He can hear David scurrying after him, loves how easily he can make this graceful man drop his artifices. “Do you condescend to your  _ mother _ with that tone of face?” 

x

“So what do you think it’s supposed to mean?” 

“That in life we wear ourselves out striving for what is ultimately a disappointing summit, but that sometimes you can get some cute pics along the way,” David pants. “I don’t fucking know, or really care, at this point. I wonder if I still have those nuts in my bag...” 

x

“Have I mentioned I’m afraid of heights?” 

Patrick stops so abruptly David bounces off his backpack. “David! Why are we climbing a towering, open-air structure, then?” He feels like the dad whose kid waits until they’re five minutes into the three-hour car ride to announce a need to pee. 

David waves his hand, aloof as ever, even if he is looking a little wan. “It’s fine. Suffering in pursuit of immersive experiences is sometimes required.” 

Patrick bites his lips until he can say without laughing, “I think you’re very brave.”

x

At the top, David plants himself firmly in the middle of the walkway, a good three feet from either banister, ignoring the dirty looks everyone gives him as they’re forced to walk around him, whole groups parting to accommodate him. 

The wind up here is intense, almost uncomfortably so. It catches them both by surprise and Patrick puts out a hand to steady David as he passes him to reach the outer railing. 

David had insisted they visit The Vessel at sunset for maximal effect, which means the train ride back to school will be entirely in the dark, but- “Is this - is this it?” Patrick asks, trying not to fully offend David with his lack of awe. 

“Ugh, I should’ve known, there are no good vantage points this low in the city, not for free anyway.” David takes a few pictures anyway, even though the surrounding buildings block off any direct view of the sun. Still, there’s a nice glow on the Hudson and on the sheer tower-faces. “Cute pics, disappointing summit, check and check.” 

“David,” Patrick says slowly, turning to look at him, unfairly resplendent in the second-hand sun, “I’m starting to think you didn’t really care about The Vessel at all. Between the shitty view, the height, the stairs-” 

Focused on fastidiously tucking his phone back into what is  _ ‘not _ a fanny pack, Patrick, how  _ dare _ you,’ the little wrinkles at the corners of David’s eyes as he winces are his only tell. “Um. I mean. It’s on the list, right? Of things to do. When you’re here. And I knew we weren’t going to have time to get to any of your stupid sports stadiums, and you’re weirdly into, like, hiking and architecture and stuff, so-” 

“ _ David _ . Thank you.” Patrick tracks the way David’s lips press together, obviously pleased. “You found me the urban modern art equivalent of a hike.” 

“Do  _ not _ defame the name of modern art,” David mutters, but he lifts a shoulder in a kind of recognition. 

Patrick moves to stand beside him so they’re getting the same view, in all its shitty, shiny, complicated glory. Maybe David’s metaphor about what it all means holds more depth than he knew. 

“Well. If the aliens return to take back their spaceship, at least we’ll be together,” David says bracingly. 

Patrick glances at him, all of his vital organs seeming to press upwards against his heart, disbelieving hope sweet on his tongue. 

But David is watching the sunset. Patrick allows himself a moment to imagine that David is looking back at him, eyes burning like the horizon, wanting Patrick to kiss him as much as Patrick wants to kiss him. 

Then he swallows and looks away. 

“At least we’ll have that,” he agrees. 


	6. lifeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little AU

Patrick was anticipating a call back from his recent job interviews, or he wouldn’t have answered the call from the unknown number. It had a Toronto area code, it was first thing in the morning - it just lined up. 

But-

“Hello?” 

“Ugh, of-fucking-course. Give the phone to Alexis.” 

“I’m - I’m sorry?” 

An audible growl reverberated from the other end of the call. “Give. The phone. _ To Alexis _.” 

"Who’s Alexis?”

“Who’s -- okay, if this is some hostage scenario, you can get back to it in a minute, I just need to talk to her, like, ASAP, please and thanks so much.” 

Patrick pushed away from his desk, torn between grinning and questioning his sanity. “I’m sorry, who is this?” 

“None of your fucking business!” 

“Uh, I think it _ is _ my business, given that this is my phone you’ve called.” 

“_ Your _ phone? _ Fuck _! Who are you, then?!” 

“I’m Patrick. Patrick Brewer.” It was probably, almost definitely, a terrible idea to give his full name to a complete stranger over the phone. Maybe it was a new type of scam. Trick him into saying his name so they could use a recording of his voice to make a withdrawal from his bank account. Somehow he thought a phone scam would be a little less expletive-laden, though. “Not getting a name for you, then?” 

“Ugh! No need to be so snippy. I’m David, Alexis is my sister, and this is my one phone call, so I’m royally, completely, totally _ fucked _.” 

“Your one pho- as in-” 

“Yes, Patrick Brewer, I am being detained by Her Majesty’s illustrious Mounties, and I had one chance to contact someone to get me the fuck out of here but I haven’t needed to know a number by heart since, like, 2007? And I was 87% sure I remembered Alexis’s number, god knows I’ve seen it come flashing up on my screen enough to be burned into the most traumatized recesses of my eyeballs, but _ no _ , I called _ you _ instead. _ Fuck _. No offense.” 

“Oh, full offense taken, David.” He waited, expecting another pained noise of indignation, but David was silent. Patrick winced. He’d gotten caught up in the teasing, the bizarrely easy dynamic of talking with this complete stranger, and forgotten David’s predicament. “Still. Since I’m here, and I’m your only lifeline. Is there another way I can contact Alexis for you?” 

“Ugh. No. Not unless you want to Tweet at her. She gets so many DMs on the reg, though, there’s basically no chance she’d see it. Even when _ I _tweet at her she generally ignores it. If she’s even in the country. She’s probably in, like, Vanuatu or St. Bart’s or something.” 

Patrick pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder so he could open the browser on his laptop. “Okay, David, what’s the address?” 

“Like, the address of _ Twitter _? Oh my god, are you ninety years old, because from your voice I didn’t think-” 

Patrick laughed out loud. “The address where you’re being held, David.” 

“Oh.” A different noise came through the phone this time, like something had just been sucked into a bog. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“No, I - I’d like to. I mean, I don’t have a car, so I’ll be coming by public transit, and I don’t have a lot of money for bail, but-”

“Oh, so this is a highly contingent offer for rescue.” He shouldn’t know David well enough to feel like he can hear the smile in his voice, but crises bring people together, don’t they?

“Unfortunately, yes.” David was the one in lock-up and yet Patrick found himself nervous that David would decide he didn’t need Patrick’s help, that he’d hang up and vanish from Patrick’s life as quickly as he’d rung into it. “But it looks like I’m all you’ve got, David.” 

“Hmm.” David sniffed, probably trying to sound aloof. Patrick just found it cute. “Well alright then. Let me just ask the _ oh so kind public servant _ watching over me for the address.” 

“Okay, David.” 


	7. kissing you is like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i blame meditation and wine and a long day at work

“Kissing you is like-” 

In the tantalizing, terrifying moments after Patrick lobs this not-a-complete-fucking-sentence-Patrick!! into the space of what had up to this point been a perfectly lovely, perfectly carefree date night on Ray’s couch, David gets to fill in the blank. Because Patrick says it, out of nowhere, and then just lingers, eyes a little far away, though David’s right here, though Patrick could kiss David again if he needs help figuring out what it’s like. 

He hopes Patrick will finish that sentence with some rom-com quote he’s secretly memorized for David. Maybe “You're the first boy I ever kissed, David, and I want you to be the last.” Though that quote is originally said to someone named Jake, so, ew, no. 

He’s been dating Patrick for a month and working with him for two, so guessing where his mind is at in this interminable moment shouldn’t be impossible. Maybe Patrick’s about to say that kissing David is like the moment the ball hits the wooden stick thing in baseball and everyone gets very loud and aggressive; David doesn’t understand the appeal but it always makes Patrick happy. Is kissing David like that? Impact, a surge, a roar, off around the bases, victory? Admittedly, of late their kisses  _ have _ led to a rocket around the bases. 

Maybe he’ll compare kissing David to something from one of those little hikes he goes on. Like summiting, which he only knows the name of because he’d once jokingly called it climaxing. The way Patrick describes it, he sweats and aches for ages but then he comes to a place where the air is clear and he can see for miles and all the difficulty seems worth it. 

If he didn’t know that Patrick is far more of a romantic than his sensible car and sensible shoes and sensible belt and sensible haircut suggest, he’d wonder if Patrick’s about to compare kissing him to the sweet joy and relief of figuring out what was wrong with a spreadsheet. Fucking nerd. David likes him so much. 

“If you compare kissing me to any food served at the cafe-” he finally says, warningly, because if he waits any longer he’ll be begging to know the answer. 

Patrick chuckles and looks down, his edges gone pink - tips of ears, crests of cheeks, across his collarbone. Clouds have silver linings; Patrick Brewers have blushed-tinged edges. “No, no. I was just thinking-” He seems to collect himself and takes David’s hand to play with his rings on top of the blanket they’re sharing. “In college, I started, um, meditating, because I was stressed out all the time. I think maybe I took on too much, between classes and theater and debate and a different team each season-” 

“ _ You _ ?” David gasps. “Over-extended and brought down by your own perfectionism? Color me astonished.” 

Patrick pinches the back of David’s hand lightly. “ _ Anyway _ . I started meditating, and it actually helped. It would help in the moment, but it would also help me prioritize and recognize what I maybe needed to change, big picture, long-term. Then when things felt okay again, I stopped. But after... when I moved here, I started again. I felt like I needed it.” 

David aches to probe. He wants every sordid, sad, desperate, lonely detail of Patrick’s past, present, and future. He wants to wrap him up and kiss it better. But inviting that in now will, eventually, require turning the spotlight on his own history. So he settles for squeezing Patrick’s hand and staying silent. 

“Kissing you,” Patrick continues, deliberate now, determined and shy in the way that always signals he’s about to sweep David’s sense of equilibrium out from under him, “makes me feel the way meditation does. Like the world stops. Or maybe it continues but it doesn’t matter, because what I have in that frozen moment is what matters. I just turn to you and it’s like - I feel-” He brings his hand to his chest, carrying David’s tangled with it. “The other stuff falls away. I feel...settled.” 

David has never heard  _ settled _ used to describe a relationship, or kissing, and thought of it as a good thing. But he’s leaned on meditation, and yoga, and booze and pills and sex and risk-taking and a dozen other things besides, chasing those moments of  _ here, now _ that Patrick is describing. He knows how powerful and elusive  _ settled _ can be. Truly calm, content, not bored or waiting or coming down from a high. He’s wanted it for himself for so long that hearing that he’s capable of giving it to someone else? Well. 

He kisses Patrick to hide the tears. 


	8. wooing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by something Antoni Porowski said in a panel he did with Dan back in November, which gives you a sense of how long it takes me to get to the ideas in my ideas google doc.

It's in Patrick's spacious studio apartment on a Thursday night, the steam from the stove bringing out the natural curls he'd attempted to tame, staring at bruschetta, that David realizes. Or remembers, really.

It had been a panel event a few weeks after he'd joined the magazine. The editors wanted to feature their top talent in each department, to let their readers get to know the people behind the paper. Patrick had been asked about the emotion behind his cooking and he'd talked, of all things, about love.

_"I know it sounds corny. Or cheesy. Wow, all the words I want to use are food-related, I'm not doing that on purpose, I promise." He'd shot David a grin; even then, as new colleagues, he'd always left David feeling pleasantly off-kilter. "But really, people talk about acts of service as being a type of love language, and I think that's what cooking is for me. I cook for the people I love. I've even been known to use cooking to woo someone I'm interested in."_

This is what David is thinking about, a grilled piece of bread piled perilously with sliced tomatoes and garlic and an artful drizzle of balsamic glaze halfway to his mouth.

He and Patrick have been doing these weekly dinners for six months now. Is Patrick *wooing him*? He supposes Patrick could be motivated by platonic love instead, but he doesn't think he does weekly dinners (and brunches, and movie nights, and long evening walks) with Stevie or Twyla or Ray. 

He stuffs the bruschetta in his mouth in panic, then moans, the exquisite perfection of the mouthful sending him tumbling right from "cute little crush on his colleague-turned-friend" into "hopeless infatuation". Is this what wooing tastes like?

"This is amazing," he tells Patrick, like he does anytime Patrick cooks for him. "Did you put something extra in it?" Like a love potion, maybe?! Or just - love?

"No, pretty standard recipe," Patrick smiles, turning so he can stir the sauce on the stove and look at David at the same time. "Lots of garlic, though."

"Hmm. My breath must be terrible." David brings his hand up to his mouth, like ridiculous people always do, as if he can catch his breath to smell it. He sees the way Patrick tracks the motion, sees his little smile, the way his stirring briefly stills.

"I've got a chocolate sorbet with candied orange peel and mint leaves for dessert," Patrick assures him, and David has no idea how he hasn't seen the courtship written all over Patrick's menus before. "That should be a good palate cleanser. Get your breath in order."

"You've really planned out the courses to the eater's benefit, then," David comments, almost casually. "Very strategic."

Patrick's neck is flushed, just a little. The color of the not-quite-ripe tomatoes he'd handed David to put on the windowsill earlier. He shrugs, and even with the apron and his button-down from the workday, David can read every line in his body. "Yeah, well."

David slides closer. "And what if I want to kiss you now?"

Patrick's eyes fly up to David's, his lips just barely parted in surprise.

He recovers enough to whisper, "But your garlic breath, David. I don't know if I can-"

David reaches across Patrick for the glass of red wine on the counter by the stove - Patrick's glass; David's is back there on the table, in a part of the apartment not saturated in whatever is happening right now. As Patrick watches intently, David takes a big swig and swishes it against his teeth, along his tongue, as if this fine vintage were water.

Finished, he sets the glass delicately on his side of the stove, well back from the edge.

"How's my breath now?" he murmurs.

Patrick's eyes are spellbound to David's wine-soaked lips. The wooden stirring spoon abandoned, Patrick's hand comes to David's elbow, drawing him in. "Let me check," Patrick whispers, and he kisses him, consuming a new feast.


	9. bespoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> threw this together real quick - have had it on my to-write list for ages. inspired by a sweater i inherited from my mom that has my grandma's own little signature tag sewed into the collar.

“Um, what is _ this _?” 

Patrick looks up from his phone to find David in the doorway, propping the screen door open with one hip so that he’s illuminated by the light from Ray’s kitchen. 

“That’s a sweater, David.” 

“I _ know _ ,” David says, so much like Alexis, and he shimmies the garment in Patrick’s direction. “But _ what is it _?”

Patrick is surprised by the quick rush of frustration. He’d told David he could borrow a sweater so that they could stay out on the porch swing into the cool of the evening; he just hadn’t expected David to be quite so thorough in his closet perusal. He normally finds David’s pickiness and bold disdain charming, but it’s just butted right up against Patrick’s protective loyalty. 

“Don’t make fun,” Patrick says curtly, standing and yanking the sweater from his surprised boyfriend. “My grandma made it.” 

“Who’s making fun?” David demands. He slips out around the door so they’re both fully in the shadow of the porch. “And I know, I saw the tag. It’s _ bespoke _.” 

Patrick stops tensely refolding the sweater, his brain tripping over the notion that David knows Patrick’s mother’s maiden name, recognized it on the little tag stitched into the collar of the sweater. 

“Bespoke, huh?” he says, a little unsteadily. “So you think someone would pay as much for this as for one of your dad’s suits?” 

“Mmkay, I said it was beautiful, not Italian wool,” David smirks, but there’s a softness to the teasing. “Can I wear it?” 

Patrick’s not proud of his hesitation. Not even Rachel had ever worn it. It’s not that he thinks the sweater will get stretched or torn or worn out - he has other items his grandmother has knitted, hats and socks and scarves, that prove the longevity of her handiwork. 

“Are you sure?” he asks skeptically. “It’s not too--” He runs his hand over the maroon sweater, feeling irregular bumps, feeling the graceless, dependable thickness. “I don’t know. Chunky? Unflattering?” 

David’s mouth twists knowingly. He reaches for the sweater, just with his fingertips, ready to take it but not applying any force. “It’s beautiful,” he repeats. “And it looks very cozy.” 

Patrick lets him slip it on over his t-shirt, and he clears his throat against the quick burn of tears. It’s just a sweater, but it’s not the first time David has looked at something that Patrick always suspected was mundane, plain, even embarrassing, and seen something beautiful. 

It takes a year and a bit, but Patrick remembers. On their second Christmas as boyfriends, David unwraps a black and white sweater and goes all pink and pleased. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s cheek. “I haven’t gotten something bespoke in years.” 

David acts like he’s gotten the best gift of the day, because of course it’s a competition. But Patrick’s sharing cinnamon rolls with his boyfriend on Christmas morning while his boyfriend wears a sweater with Patrick’s grandma’s name sewn into it, literally wrapped in the love Patrick’s family has extended to them both - so he knows he won. 


End file.
